


maybe this is danger and you just don't know

by crookedspoon



Series: nothing more than any artists dreams [7]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Anal Sex, Frottage, Hangover, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, Kinktober 2017, Light Angst, M/M, Morning After, POV Prokopenko, POV Second Person, Size Kink, Sleepy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 18:44:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12238554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: The fact thatSwanof all people wants you is really fucking flattering.





	maybe this is danger and you just don't know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [galateaofthewestside](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galateaofthewestside/gifts).



> For the prompts "Sleepy sex" from [Kinktober](https://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/post/165792866205/kinktober-2017), "Searching" from [Inktober for writers](https://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/post/165654253225/spymastery-as-i-mentioned-doing-just-yesterday), and my fren who wanted Proko to have something nice.
> 
> May I present to you my first TDP minus K fic (written out of order, because why not? The prompts just fell that way. Not like I've been running around with the "last night" idea for months). In which I prove I cannot write sleepy sex and instead you get more angst. Hope you enjoy the filth anyway.

You think you must be hungover – there's no way you're _not_ hungover after last night – but you're not ready yet to move and find out. As long as you can stay on your back and stare straight ahead, you don't have to face your impaired physical condition.

Which does not mean you have to ignore someone else's physical condition.

"Are you humping my thigh?" you hiss at whoever's rubbing their morning wood against you. You're too tired to deal with this.

"I can hump something else if you wanna?" Swan rumbles in your ear. Of course it would be him. Who else would be up at this ungodly hour? You don't know what time it is exactly, Kavinsky's not exactly a fan of clocks or watches, so there are none on the walls and you'd have to search for a working cell phone in all that rubble of discarded clothing, but again: hungover and too tired. In any case, the sky still looks dim and gray, so it can't be much past seven.

"Fuck," you curse because with all that humping, your own morning wood is making itself known.

"That's what I wanted to hear," Swan answers and moves the blanket out of the way so he can drape himself over you. You'd tense if that weren't exhausting. Your muscles are made of loose rubber bands, just barely holding you together.

And anyway, he's broad and sleep-warm and covers you well, so you might let this slide if he wants to be your new comforter.

The only trouble is, he's so very naked. As are you.

Part of you wonders why Swan is alone in bed with you and Kavinsky. He probably carried you here before collapsing himself. If Skov and Jiang are still there, they must be flung over some armchair in the living room area.

You choke on a moan when his cock touches yours. (Was that thing really inside you a mere couple of hours ago? You can't be entirely certain who did what to you when, because K turned you inside out before he let anyone so much as touch you, and after that it was high stacked on high with barely a minute in between to come down. There are videos, you're sure of it, but you don't ever want to see them. Let them be K's wank material.)

"Still sensitive?" he asks, because yeah, your dick has been through quite the abuse.

"I'm good." Part of you wonders if he's mistaking you for Skov, since he's never shown an interest in you before, so your name is a bit of a surprise coming out of his mouth.

"You're a real trooper, Proko."

He settles in between your thighs and aligns his cock with yours. So this is really happening.

Fuck, you're blushing. The fact that _Swan_ of all people wants you is really fucking flattering. He's so unlike the rest of your group, living a cleaner lifestyle (ordinarily, this would be the time for his morning run) and having a body that must have been sculpted from marble. Who knows, maybe he even crafted himself, Pygmalion and Galatea in one.

Although he's not much prettier than you, with that body alone he could have anyone. He wouldn't need to settle for someone like you.

Perhaps you've finally proved yourself to be interesting enough for him. Perhaps you've proved that under all that tightly capped anxiety you're as much a whore as Kavinsky is but you're easier because you'd sleep with anyone so long as they say nice things to you – and sometimes not even that. Perhaps that's all he wants: an easy lay.

And you're good for it. You wouldn't struggle, not now, not against him, as if you had any chance of it doing anything. He's strong and real and solidly inhabits the space he occupies, and that alone makes you weak. Makes you want this. Makes you compare it to Kavinsky.

You're feeling somewhat guilty for allowing this to happen, for welcoming it even, when K is snoozing no two feet away from you, but who could say no to those shoulders and those biceps? A whimper escapes you as your fingers skim over them.

You're not even attracted to him, really, but God, he feels so nice and smooth, rubbing against you, burying you beneath his bulk. Your hands map out the entirety of his broad back and you can't help feeling deathly pale and insubstantial against him.

You also can't help moaning. His pace is slow and sensuous, and you'd like to hike your legs up higher, maybe wrap them around him, but your body's still mostly gelatinous and all you can do is enjoy him thrusting against you.

You cling to him as you cling to life, unconsciously and out of habit, but also because it's terrifying and terrifyingly huge, and he's just like that, huge and engulfing you like you're nothing. His lips on yours are gentle and probing for all that his weight on you is not, though perhaps that is just your impression, because you're breaking out in sweat and feel like you're melting into him, like he's soaking up what little there is left of you.

He fills up your senses with his scent of secondhand smoke and sex and _boy,_ and you breathe him in deeper, hoping to get away with making some of his yours just as he is making all of yours his. Or not all of it, he couldn't, but that's not his fault. Your heart is locked away tightly in a box labeled Kavinsky. Only he can pry it out and open, ply it with needles as he does.

The box is feeling very snug right now, your heart chafing against its confines.

Swan's fingers on your dick shift your attention lower. You're both slick with pre-come and the strong circle of his hand adds some needed friction. But it's not enough.

"Swan?"

"Hm?" he hums against your lips.

Belatedly, you're glad he didn't mention your morning breath. Your mouth tastes like ass. Probably your own. You swallowed a lot of dicks, after all, and you don't want to think about where they'd been before they shoved their way between your teeth. You'd cleaned yourself, sure, this wasn't a surprise party, but it's still not the most sanitary practice. If you weren't so preoccupied, the thought of it might even offend your sensibilities somewhat.

Which doesn't mean you wouldn't do it again.

"I want you inside me," you murmur.

"Again?" He sounds amused and perhaps a little pleased.

You hope he takes the affirmative noise you make for what it is, and not for an objection to the memory.

"Think you can take me already, pretty boy?"

Ordinarily, you might have hit him for that nickname. But that would require more motor function than you can muster right now. "Just the tip'll be fine. I just need something."

Grinning against you, he slips his hand down past your balls and you groan when his fingers press inside you. You're _itching_ inside and the slow drag against you is soothing the fire somewhat.

"Fuck, you're still nice and loose."

Your exhale resembles a contented sigh.

"This might actually work."

Gently, he helps maneuver you to lie on your side. Your stomach and your head protest for only a moment at the change of position.

"Ya know," he muses as he tucks himself flush against you, his cock rubbing against your ass, and kisses the top of your shoulder. "K should hand you around like that more often."

Sudden heat slams through you. "Oh God, don't say that."

"Why not?"

"'Cause you're making me come."

"Ain't that the idea?" he asks, and nudges the tip inside.

It's only a mild stretch, but it feels so good. Your head falls back against him and your body tips away from him. Okay, this isn't gonna work like that. You gather the blanket in front to cushion you and prop you up. He slides out his tip only to push it back inside.

You hug a pillow to your face and pant into it. He feels too fucking good to handle, his hands on your waist, his breath against your neck, his cock in your ass, all of it.

"You enjoyin' this?" he whispers into your ear.

"Yeah," you breathe.

"You enjoy being K's whore, too?" His whisper is quieter this time.

"Mmh... yeah. Most def."

There's a pause. And again, quieter, "Enjoy being mine?"

Another wave of fire rolls through you and your heart twinges inside its box. "I changed my mind."

He stills and withdraws. Resting on one elbow, he curls over you. "You don't want this?"

You look up at him and hold his gaze. "I want all of it."

Your hand twists over his neck to the bristles on the back of his head. They prickle your fingertips as you draw him down to kiss you again.

He lines himself up again, waits for your nod, then slides his tongue into your mouth and his cock into your ass, not just the tip this time.

You could come just from his grip on your hips. You must have had bruises there before he started pressing new ones into your flesh.

But God, he's so big. He sinks into you slowly, carefully, and the pressure inside you builds. Why did you think you could take him without half a bottle of vodka in you to take the edge off? Come to think of it, there's probably still vodka inside you, but it's only making your head swim and your stomach feel queasy.

"Relax," he says and runs his fingers over your sides, presses a kiss against your ear.

It weirds you out how considerate he is with you, so different from the contentious asshole with the barbed tongue you got to know on the streets of Henrietta.

Is this what he's like when he's alone?

You're not sure what to make of that, but it doesn't matter. Coherent thought melts inside your head when he takes hold of your dick and times his tugs with the thrusts into your body.

With that dual assault on your nerves, you crush your face into your pillow again. The pleasure rises to a blinding heat and crashes over you faster than you can react to it. You quiver against him and spill yourself on the blankets.

It hurts when he pulls out this time, but you concentrate on his breathing and the stifled grunts you can barely make out because your own breathing is so loud in your ears.

You'd love to turn around to see his muscles spasm when he comes, but if you've been goo before, now you're just soup.

You stay like this and breathe with him until you become drowsy again.

After a while, the mattress dips and he is gone. Dimly, you notice the sound of rushing water coming from the bathroom. You should probably clean yourself, too. You're grimy with the fluids of not just the two of you. That quick washdown you were subjected to yesterday can't make up for a good long soak.

When you roll onto your back, he's there again, leaning over you with his face freshly scrubbed. He smells like citrus soap.

"I'm heading out for a run," he says. "Wanna join me?"

"You're fucking kidding me, right?" You boggle at his stamina.

"Should I take that as a no?"

"Take that as a 'Thanks for the invite but I'm totally fucking fucked out right now and won't be able to move for the rest of the day, if not the rest of my life.'"

"Next time then, lazyass."

"Only if I don't die of respiratory failure first."

And off he goes, with a bit more swagger than usual. Or maybe you were just imagining it.

You let your head fall to the side and settle in for an extended nap.

"So last night wasn't enough for you."

Your eyes snap open when you hear K's voice, and your whole body freezes. How could you have forgotten that he's been lying right next to you the entire time? 

He's sprawling on his side, leaning on his hand, and his eyes are dangerously dark.

"You're awake," you say weakly, lamely.

"Think I could have slept through your pillow talk?"

You grimace.

"It's cute when you're greedy." He reaches out and cuffs you with his knuckles. You rub the spot although it doesn't hurt. The sudden topic change confuses you. But it also feels like tentative relief.

"You're not mad?"

K's face is devoid of expression. "That you woke me?"

"You know what I mean."

He eyes you like that for another moment, before he throws himself on his back and presses his palms against his face. "Fuck. Yeah, maybe a bit."

"I'm sorry," you say and mean it. "I should have waited. I should have asked first. I should have—"

"Honey, sweetheart, babygirl," he interrupts you, and his choice of endearments makes your face burst into flame more than any of the things you may have done last night.

He tosses the soiled blanket separating you from the bed and scoots closer. His fingers tangle up with yours.

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"I... didn't?"

"You might wanna have your ears checked, Proko-babe."

You blink at him slowly, searching his voice and his eyes for any sign of insincerity. "Why aren't you more jealous?"

K's grin takes a while to form, but it's impish in nature. "That's for me to know and for you to find out some other time."

"What's that supposed to mean? Are you planning something like this again?"

"Tell me you wouldn't wanna do it again."

You wonder if this is a trick question. Say yeah, you wanna do it again and piss him off for thinking he's not enough for you. Say no, you don't wanna do it again and piss him off for being a boring old spoilsport. So you just gnaw on your bottom lip and say nothing.

"It's settled then," he says and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

"Why?"

"You'll see."

"I hope you don't plan on whoring me out to strangers."

True to form, he makes a show of contemplating it. "Would that be such a bad idea?"

"The worst," you say and poke his stomach.

"Nah, people are assholes, I don't want them anywhere near you."

"And your friends are not assholes? Because I distinctly remember you saying—"

"I know what I said."

He's silent for a moment as he gathers you into his arms. With a shudder, you relax against him, breathing so much easier now that you know he isn't mad at you.

"They're your friends, too, you know," he says finally.

Something warm and wet inside you feels dangerously close to bursting. So you push him away and say, "Don't go soft on me now."

His grin is a knife again. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"Good."

"Yeah."

You rest your head on the pillow again, but it has your drool on it, so you flip it over.

"And Proko?" he says as he kisses your forehead. So much for not going soft on you. But you'd be lying if you said you didn't like this affectionate side of him. It's the one you're holding out for, even if you can't always accept it when it's there.

"Hm?"

"You stink. Go get a shower."

A drawn-out groan wrenches itself out of you. "Nap first, shower later. I couldn't even stand upright if I wanted to."

"I could prop you up." K shrugs.

"What, with your third leg?"

"I see you get the idea."

"Rain check, please." Your voice is closing in on a whimper. You want to curl up into a ball, but with the current state of your nether regions, any additional strain would be inadvisable.

"Should've thought of that before," he coos and strokes your hair out of your face.

"Go fuck yourself if you're so horny."

"Guess that's what it'll boil down to. Or maybe I find Swan and ask him if he wants to hump me, too."

"You do that. Make a video to commemorate and send it to the group chat. I might even watch it later."

He ruffles your hair and rolls out of bed. You get the impression his mind is elsewhere already, working out his next project maybe. Or maybe whatever ominous thing it is he's planning. Whatever it is, you hope it'll last him some time. He's more agreeable when he has something to chew over, something that is solving itself in the back of his head. Happier, too. Or as happy as he can get without synthetic help.

You fall asleep with Kavinsky on your mind, a smile on your face, and throbbing handprints on your hips.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Tear You Apart" by She Wants Revenge.


End file.
